Haunted Memories
by NorthernMage
Summary: It had been by vengeful witches that he was murdered, by his grieving father that his presence went unseen, and by 200 years of solitude and OCD that Kid became nothing more than a strange myth to be faced in tests of fear. Prequel to Ghost of the Gallows.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi, NorthernMage here! It's been ages since I've uploaded anything, but I've been really busy and also working on some other stories, which inevitably have gotten out of control.**

 **Anyway, enough about that. This is a collaboration between myself and Pokelolmc, and we've been working on it for quite a while. This time, we've got a good amount of prewritten chapters, so hopefully the wait should be smaller for part of this.**

 **This is a prequel to Ghost of the Gallows, and I won't keep you any longer!**

 **Lord Death: NorthernMage and Pokelolmc don't own Soul Eater.**

 _General POV_

It was a beautiful day in Death City. The sun beat down on the cobbled streets, and meisters and weapons walked through the streets. Some were returning from missions, while others were going out.

It was the thirteenth of May, 1813. Witch activity had been dropping for weeks, and the peace had been welcomed. Not long before, witches had been appearing everywhere, which meant that the very tired meisters and weapons were now able to go on missions without fearing from witches.

The teenage boys strode down the streets with their partners, some boys, some girls. While the boys talked to each other, and the all-girl teams spoke as well, there was a noticeable barrier between the members of the co-ed teams.

The girl only listened and supported their partner, regardless of whether she was meister or weapon.

Although, Lord Death had to admit, watching a lesson through his mirror, that had mixed results. At the Death Weapon Meister Academy, the situation currently happening in Crescent Moon was fairly usual.

 _'Quiet, Theen!' the teacher demanded, glaring at the brown-haired boy. Daniel Theen glared right back._

 _'As you wish, Miss Nakatsukasa.' he hissed, scrunching up the note in his hands._

 _'Now that Mister Theen has stopped his note-passing with Mister Alute, we can continue with our lesson.' the teacher said, before going back to talking about soul wavelengths. 'Evans, what can you tell the class about soul wavelength compatibility?'_

 _Seth Evans nodded. 'Soul compatibility is what enables a meister and weapon to resonate, and use each other in battles against kishin. Without this, the weapon may not be picked up by the meister without the weapon becoming too hot for the weapon to hold, and on occasion they cannot be picked up at all.'_

 _In the midst of this, Nema Tulis sat quietly, looking at her weapon Seth with complete subservience._

Lord Death sighed. 'Well,' he mumbled, 'at least they got past using each other as slaves...' People were often put into factories, but at least there was some pay, unlike the Medieval Era.

He switched to watching a mission.

This time the girl was the weapon, and the boy was the meister. He had to admit, they were one of the most powerful teams he had seen in quite a while.

As he slashed one final time, the kishin, which had been a tall, formally dressed man with a mask on, which had red lines on it around his eyes and mouth, turned into a glowing red soul. The meister lowered his weapon, panting, and the weapon, a girl named Linette, transformed out of her weapon form, which was a pistol. Linette wore a tight-fitting dress, which opened up from her waist, but was still rather thin. She went up to the soul, and ate it as her partner, Samuel, came up to her and they talked, before leaving the area.

The mirror turned blank, and Lord Death began to leave the Death Room. As he passed the door, he passed a young woman of around twenty years.

'Hello Lord Death.' she greeted.

'Hello death scythe.' he replied, pausing.

'Are you going home at this early hour?' the death scythe, Lisha Diehl asked.

'Yes, I have a few things to take care of.'

'Ah, would that be the present you were speaking of earlier?' Lisha asked. She was one of few people who knew about his son, as he was not trained yet, or had any weapons. Given she was his death scythe, however, he had seen no problem with her knowing.

'Yes. I hope that the new suit fits him.' Lord Death replied, thinking of the black suit with white dashes down the middle and over the shoulders.

'I'm sure it will.' Lisha assured him. Lord Death inclined his head as thanks, then continued on his way.

The sun lit up the sky, tinting it a gentle orange colour as it descended. Lord Death wandered through the mostly deserted streets, finally arriving at Gallows Mansion.

Opening the door, he called out. 'Hey Kiddo, I'm home!'

Death the Kid looked up from the book he was reading, _Kishin Souls and their Creation_.

'Hello, father.' the young man replied, attention diverted from his book.

'Did a package arrive today?' It was a surprise present for Kid, as he hadn't been home much recently.

'Ah, yes, it was delivered to the basement earlier today. Was it important?' his son queried.

Lord Death nearly said it was a personal item, but thought better of it. _Kid will ask more questions then, it'll be better to say it's something about the DWMA._ 'It's an important artifact that was discovered by a meister and weapon team. It seemed suspicious, so I had it sent here so I could take a look at it.

'Oh, of course. I already had dinner, I hope that does not inconvenience you.'

'Not at all, I have not been home much recently, and I regret that.'

'It has been no problem, father.' Kid insisted, not wanting to make his father feel guilty.

'Kid, I am going to make sure to spend more time with you. We have barely had any time since December to spend together.' Kid smiled slightly. It seemed that no matter how many times he explained that he didn't mind the solitude, as his father _was_ Lord Death, and that was to be expected, his father ignored his reasoning.

 _It will be nice to have time to talk to him again,_ Kid thought.

'I have to do some work first though on this artifact.' Lord Death sighed. Kid nodded, he knew that witches were a huge threat to the Academy, and Death City.

'Goodnight, Kid. I'll be down in the basement if you need me.' Lord Death told his son. Kid nodded.

'I will be fine. Goodnight, father.' Kid bowed and started walking up the stairs to his room. Lord Death watched his son walk away as he headed down to the basement.

After all, he needed to make sure Kid's surprise present was perfect for when he got it tomorrow.

~:~

 _So, on the thirteenth of May, 1813, Death the Kid, son of Lord Death left for his room, frustrated at the strange soul wavelengths he was picking up. They were dismissed as drunk souls._

 _Lord Death was down in the basement, the lowest level of Gallows Mansion. He thought only of his son's likely surprise and joy at being given a present, and was completely focused on his task._

 _Little did either of them know what was coming in but a few hours._

~:~

'Father.' Death the Kid whispered, a tear rolling down his cheek.

Lord Death was by his son's bed, unable to think. The younger death god was limp on the bed, and his golden eyes were becoming hazy.

Moments before, Lord Death had been caught up in hatred, pure hatred at the witches who had dared to enter Gallows Mansion. It was the home he shared with his thirteen-year-old son, but that wasn't going to be the case in a few moments.

You see, the witches hadn't just entered the home of the two death gods.

The six witches, and their leader, Luzida, had nearly killed Kid. Paralysed, he hadn't been able to fight back, and had been helpless as they had attacked him mercilessly.

This was when Lord Death, unpacking a present for his son in the basement, had felt the souls brimming with magic. In moments he was halfway up the stairs to the first floor.

Then the witches had delivered their message to Kid: they wanted revenge on Lord Death.

At that point, Lord Death was at the bottom of the second set of stairs.

The witches had then started the final phase of their plan: to kill Death's son. One of them, Luzida, had created a lizard tongue-shaped spear out of white hot fiery magic.

She had then proceeded to stab Kid in the chest with it, too close to his heart for him to survive. Still frozen, the weaponless god had screamed, the pain making him delirious for a moment.

It had taken barely a second for his father, who had been halfway up to Kid's room, to burst open the door.

The first thing he had seen was Kid frozen above his bed, like he was suspended by invisible strings. The teen's eyes had been wide with terror, and even more so with pain, looking almost glossy.

The second had been the witches surrounding his defenceless son, grinning malevolently. Lord Death's mask warped into a shape even more severe than the one he would have hundreds of years later while battling Asura.

'HOW DARE YOU COME HERE!' he roared, seeing them. 'YOU THINK YOU CAN COME HERE AND HURT MY SON?' He lunged forward, locking into battle with the first witch.

With each one that fell, Kid jerked, like one of the strings holding him tight had been broken. It didn't take long for the fully fledged grim reaper to reach the last witch, Luzida. She cackled as they fought, but all he could think of was Kid.

 _They had hurt him. His son, a piece of his very soul._

'This does not feel so great when you are on the receiving end, does it reaper?' she laughed as he landed the final blow.

Lord Death was barely even listening by this point, his anger nearly consuming him.

 _Kid was hurt. His son was hurt and in pain._

With Luzida dead, Kid flopped down onto the bed, a choked sob of pain escaping him.

Lord Death spun away from Luzida's soul and rushed to Kid, tearing off his mask as he ran.

'What happened?' he gasped as he saw Kid's injuries, mentally running through his knowledge of everything...anything that could help Kid.

Nothing. He came up with nothing. 'Kid.' he choked out, heartbroken.

This was where they were now. The ever formal, composed teenage grim reaper named Death the Kid had his head turned slightly to the side, eyes hazy, barely seeing anything at all except his father, a black and white figure against the moonlight streaming through from the window, the black curtains parted to show a grinning moon, blood slipping out from between it's teeth.

'Father.' Kid whispered, a solitary, asymmetrical tear sliding down his bruised and battered cheek.

The hushed whisper was tainted with sadness.

 _No._ Death thought, losing, for the first time in his life, the first battle he ever personally lost just on his own. The only enemy to ever beat the grim reaper himself were the tears brimming in his own eyes.

Kid's slow, limited chest movements came to a halt, and his rising chest fell for the last time.

Death the Kid had breathed his last.

'Kid.' Death breathed quietly, voice shaky with sobs. His wet golden eyes, exposed in the light of moon, glanced over the slender and bloodied figure on the bed. Lord Death knelt by the bedside, and gently grasped his son's pale, cold hands in his own. How could he have let this happen? Kid was so young! Not just in reaper standards; in human age he was also considered not yet an adult. 13 years old. Only 13. And now he was gone.

The older death god gazed upon the younger's face. As pale and as cold as the rest of the body, the eyes gently closed shut by Lord Death because he couldn't bear to stare into the blank, lifeless pupils anymore, and the lips pressed together in a slack line. Something wet glistened and ran down Death's face. It didn't take long for him to figure out he was crying. Those closed eyes. Those closed eyes, golden like his own, eyes that reflected his; he wished that it was all just a nightmare, and that he would wake up to see those younger copies of his own eyes open, full of life, and stare at him in confusion and concern, and for the pale lips to part, and for the male teen voice to ask, in the most formal of courteous tones, why his elder was crying. But alas, those young, golden eyes would never open again, nor would those lips ever utter another word -or even open to make way for another exhaled breath- again. Never again. It would never happen.

'Kid... I'm sorry.' the grim reaper uttered shakily, voice nearly cracking as he slowly stroked Kid's pale cheek with a big, gloved thumb. 'I am so sorry. I failed to save you, and now I shall never see you again. Oh, my son.'

Kid was sleeping, but he would never wake up. Forever he would sleep. His death. He died. Lord Death had seen so much of his namesake, he didn't like it, and it did faze him, but he could cope with it even through the struggle. However, now, there was just ONE death he could NOT cope with, and it would haunt him forever.

The passing -no- the _murder_ of his child.

Lord Death finally recovered from crying, and stood up. He grasped his mask in one hand and pulled the bedsheets over Kid's body with the other. He headed towards the door, and with one, last, grieved look -without his mask- at the son he would never see again, the grim reaper uttered to his deceased offspring his last farewell, the overwhelming grief created as equivalent to every moment, every memory, every day they shared as even a small family filled his topaz-coloured glance, and his eight -yes, eight, Kid liked that number- words.

'Goodbye, and rest in peace, Death the Kid.'

He put his mask back on, and exited, closing the door behind him. He hoped silently that the witches were burning in hell for what they had done.


	2. Chapter 2

**I am so, so sorry. Every time I've tried to upload, it hasn't let me. Trust me, I really did want to update this story.**

 **Thanks for the support so far, by the way! It means a lot.**

 **I should warn you guys…this chapter is pretty emotional. In fact, this and the next chapter are both pretty heartbreaking.**

 **Anyway, I won't keep you any longer. Here you go!**

 **Kid: NorthernMage and Pokelolmc don't own Soul Eater.**

 _Kid's POV_

'Father.' That single breath.

That _one breath_ , and I felt like I was dying.

I bolted up. I remembered being attacked and stabbed in the chest by witches. The stab seemed fatal. Father had recognised the sound and come running to slay the witches while I was paralysed by the spell the witches placed on me. Even after he killed the witches, I was dying. Father clutched me, his mask-less face filled with sadness and pain. The pain of possibly losing me. I could only muster a little breath. That one word: "Father."

Then I slipped into unconsciousness.

Into darkness.

Then I woke up.

Father was no longer here. I looked down at myself; the wounds were all gone, even the one in my chest that I thought would have killed me. My breathing would be easier now. Then, my eyes went wide with horror as I put my hand over my mouth to feel the air I exhaled...

But I felt nothing.

I was not exhaling any air.

And I could not feel the air coming in, either.

I panicked and realised I was not breathing in any air, and I started to breathe quicker but deeper, trying to get air to my lungs...

But to no avail.

I was moving, conscious, healed, alright...

But I was not breathing.

I could feel it.

I could not breathe.

Why?! How?! If I did not get air in, I was most certainly going to perish!

But the suffocation did not hurt. I did not feel hurt by the lack of air like as per norm for anyone - human, shinigami or otherwise. I looked down at my chest. It was rising and falling as if I were breathing, but I was not getting air in. It was exactly as if I WAS breathing, but really I WAS NOT getting any air.

What was going on?!

I stood up off the bed; taking in my surroundings. Everything was normal. Then, I noticed something, an object of the room dotted crimson, in the corner of my eye. I turned, slowly, and my eyes went wide with shock and disbelief, creeping its way up my spine was a dreading sense of horror. Lying on the bloodstained bed I had only noticed upon turning around, was a bloodstained figure...

Me.

 _No. No no no no no! What is happening?! I do not...I do not like it Idonotgetit!_

I felt like I was going to be sick. Shakily, I reached out to the body. _It is yours!_ a little voice cried. _Do not try and say that bloodied, broken boy on the bed is not you!_

As my hand touched the blanched skin, I felt nothing, and my hand went right through. I stared, seeing but at the same time not seeing my arm, which was partially through the bo...

 _Partially through me._

 _Normal POV_

That was when Kid heard the unmistakeable sound of doors opening and closing on the first level. Someone - he had no idea who - was in the house. Judging by where the sound was coming from, they were approaching the front of the house.

 _If I hurry, I'll be able to catch them, I can find out who they are!_

Turning around, Kid went to the door and opened it, ignoring the strange feeling he got when trying to grasp the handle. A door handle was not worth thinking about, not when he might be able to catch the other person in this house, who might know what had happened!

He rushed down the stairs, racing through the darkened rooms. For some reason, he could see perfectly the entire time, no matter whether there was much light or not. Quite a few of the candles had been blown out, and some of the rooms were messier than he remembered. Quickly deciding it was only the fact he had done this many times before, and that his father had likely been using the rooms but had not gotten to cleaning up yet, he dodged the chairs and books left around the rooms.

 _Again, not the time to think on it! I have to be quick if I want to see who it is!_

As Kid reached the first floor, he paused, listening to the footsteps. It seemed they were almost at the front door. Running, he sprinted through the rooms until he reached the entry hall, almost sliding on the wooden floor as he turned to see the front door.

Approaching the large oak doors, with the Death family symbol engraved on them, was Lord Death. Kid's eyes widened.

 _Father!_ He cried out only moments later.

'Father! I - I am unsure of what has occurred, but with everything you know, we can fix this, I know we can!'

Strangely, he made no movement to indicate that Kid's words had been heard. Frowning, the young man walked up to the older death god, who had frozen at the door.

 _Perhaps he heard me?_ Kid blinked.

'Father...?' he asked slowly, raising his voice. Maybe he had simply spoken too softly?

Lord Death turned, looking back into the entry hall...

...and directly at Kid. _Now he'll see me, surely!_ To his confusion, the elder death god turned, and with a small push, the doors swung open, light streaming in.

Well, light was an overstatement. The sky was overcast, storm clouds gathering in the sky. It was almost completely black, but faint light was still visible through the dark clouds. It was a mild improvement from the candlelit manor.

But his father still did not acknowledge his presence.

 _What!?_

The younger god's stomach plummeted when his elder continued to ignore him.

As Lord Death walked forward, out of the manor, Kid raced towards him.

'No! Wait! FATHER!'

The moment he was in line with the threshold, he saw nothing but a burst of blue light, and he was roughly thrown back onto the ground, somehow not injuring himself in the process. While he was incredibly sore, he could move just as easily as he could before.

Kid scrambled back up to his feet as the front doors to Gallows Manor swung shut. What was going on? Why did his father ignore him? It was like he was invisible, and inaudible...

But what was going on?

From what he'd seen of his "body", he had been trapped by some sort of spacial magic behind a cursed barrier and the "corpse" had been conjured to fool his father. His father had fallen for it, too; just like the witches wanted. His father believed he was dead while he was trapped behind a magical dimensional barrier with his original position replaced by a conjured body. That had to be it.

Either that, or he really was dead.

Or was it?

For the dimensional magic which must seem to be beyond their capabilities, the witches wouldn't have the raw power and would thus need to use frequently practiced runes.

He set out to scour the house for drawing or etchings of magical runes.

As he walked along, he thought of the points on both sides of his internal debate. Could he really be dead? He wouldn't be still conscious if he was! The transparency and the body, plus not being able to breathe...

After an hour or two, he found nothing on the runes.

He arrived back at his room, and stared at the body on the bed.

How!? How were there no traces of continued magical activity!? The witches must be keeping him there under some curse of invisibility and inaudibility or sealed him behind a magical barrier.

Or he was dead.

He shook off the thought. He couldn't be dead!

He went to grasp the hand of the "corpse", but his hand went through once again. This time, though, there was something more as well.

A sharp pain tore at Kid's chest, right where the spear had impaled him. He doubled over and clawed at the centre of the agony, but he became distracted as his mind filled with images. The last things he remembered seeing and hearing. The spear, his own scream, his father's shouts and shaky begs to stay awake.

He reached down, into the depths of his own soul, but his soul's inner world had faded of its colour, and been reduced to a greyscale monochrome.

His mental inner world, hidden inside his soul, was that of the Death Room, but it was grim and dull. The dome-shaped, hitherto cerulean blue sky, was a light shade of grey, the window in the sky had its ancient shutters closed and the clouds lay eerily motionless. The tōri guillotine gates looked as if they had come straight out of a black and white painting, and the plains-like surface of the room and round platform had lost their dirty cream hue for an almost starch shade. The flames of the candles protruding from either side of the platform's tall mirror's frame were extinguished and the candles which once supported them were no longer sticks that burned shorter ever so slowly, but melted pools of wax in their metal holders. The mirror itself had fogged glass, which never seemed to reveal a clear focus underneath – even when Kid tried to wipe off the condensation.

The irregular crosses dotted in concentrated populations around the expanse of space were the only things that seemed to remain the same; they were as black and crooked as ever. His father had told him when he was young that the crosses were graves, but he didn't say whether for humans or Kishin or witches. They were just grave markers for unidentified dead.

Kid, who had paced around the platform whilst taking in the surroundings of his inner world, decided to trudge through the arrangement of crosses, when he noticed something off.

Sitting on its own, in a small and otherwise empty space behind the rest of the crosses, was perhaps the only nearly-shaped one in the entire room. It was a bigger grave marker than the others. Something made a rock settle in Kid's stomach.

The cross had a sign.

Taking shaky, nervous steps closer to the cross, his eyes widened and his whole being froze as he scanned over the words on the wooden sign, rereading the name over and over again in disbelief.

DEATH THE KID

1800-1813

He slumped to the ground once he came back to the outside world from his soul's inner one.

His whole soul contained no life energy; no wonder his soul's inner world was so grim and bleak.

He had died.

He really was dead.

He had been murdered; he did not survive the attack.

His whole mind still scrambled for other possibilities, but he couldn't avoid the truth as it hit him in the face like a charging animal.

He was dead.

Lifeless.

Deceased.

Late.

Gone.

Killed.

Ended.

Not alive.

D-E-A-D DEAD.

He. Had. Been. Murdered.

He. Was. Not. Living. Anymore.

He. Would. Never. Wake. Up. To. Life. Ever. Again.

That corpse was doubtlessly his body; his wounded, bloody, pale, motionless body.

He mourned his own demise, the life he lost young, the life he couldn't feel ever again.

Then a question hit him.

He was dead, so how was he still here?

The translucency...and his hand going through his body...his father not seeing or hearing him...

'My soul must have been somehow left behind in this world after I died for some reason. That would make me...a lost soul, a regretful spirit, a ghost?'

He looked down as his shaking, translucent hands.

'I...I am dead...I am a ghost...I cannot live anymore... I cannot breathe; spirits do not need air... I can most definitely not eat or drink either... Eat or drink or sleep, or bleed or bruise or sweat or cry or anything involving bodily liquids; because my body is dead. I am not in it anymore.' If he could cry, tears would be springing to his eyes right then.

But he couldn't.

Ghosts couldn't cry.

 _Kid's POV_

I was a spirit in this world, having not yet passed on. I would have to leave this world for the other side, where perhaps I could rest in peace.

'Father.' I breathed sadly.

My honourable father...would he come back for me? Yes, he would. We are gods of death and have the ability to see the spirits of the dead; he mustn't have activated it last time, but later he would sense my presence and come. He would find me, helpme undo my small bind to this world and help me pass on. That was a reaper's job, after all.

He would come up here.

He must surely...

 _Would he?_


	3. Chapter 3

**Hi! This is the last of the prewritten stuff, so no telling when the next update will be.**

 **About updates: Sorry, I kind of keep forgetting how long it's been since I last updated, and that's why they've been a few weeks apart each time...**

 **In any case, the feels warning is needed in this chapter. There's a large amount of heartbreak and feels destruction here.**

 **Again, thanks for all the support, it means a lot!**

 **Lisha: NorthernMage and Pokelolmc don't own Soul Eater.**

 **(For some reason, it's not showing the line break option in the editor. Therefore, there's going to be just a plain symbol wherever a line break should have gone. Sorry.)**

 _General POV_

Lisha Deihl hid a yawn as she walked through the halls of the DWMA. Something had kept her awake for quite a while last night, though she had no idea what.

She had fallen asleep relatively early, though. Intense training to keep her position as Lord Death's personal weapon had taken it's toll on her.

Remembering the conversation with her boss the day before about his son, the woman smiled, opening the door to the Death Room.

'Hello Lord Death.' she greeted, passing under the last tōri gate. He was on the opposite side of the dais, facing the mirror.

'Morning, death scythe.' he replied quietly, not turning around. At his words, Lisha paused.

'Sir, is there something wrong?' In all honesty, she couldn't remember her boss ever being so quiet. Even when the witches managed to amass a while ago and become a serious threat to the DWMA, he hadn't acted this way. That had been more of a cold, deathly - there was no other way to describe it, unfortunately - determination. Now, it seemed as if he were completely drained of his usual energetic nature.

'...yes, there is.' His voice was trembling.

'Did the suit not fit?'

'...I don't know. I didn't get around to giving it to him.'

'Well, that's a sadness. Though, you'll be able to give it to him tonight, sure-'

'He's dead.'

Lisha gasped in shock. She'd met him a few times, and the young death god had always been exceptionally polite, more than willing to talk about the Academy and his father. He'd been close to starting to learn about Kishin through the books in the mansion's library the last time she had seen him.

'What happened?' Lord Death's voice stabilised momentarily, though still soft.

'Witches attacked our home, late last night.' His voice trembled. 'They were using a newer technique, Soul Protect.'

'The same that was used by the witches in the recent attacks.' Lisha said, pity welling up inside her. From what they could tell, it was possible for a witch to completely hide their soul and disguise it as human using the technique, which was what made it so dangerous. No one had expected the technique to become widely used so quickly, but from the sound of things, it had.

Many meister and weapon teams had been killed because of it, and Kid, an untrained teenage boy, albeit a death god, wouldn't have stood a chance.

'I...I was just down in the basement when they started using magic.' he whispered, staring at the blank mirror. 'I h-heard him scream and I couldn't save him...'

'Sir...' Lisha trailed off. What could she possibly say?

'The worst part is, my son's murder wasn't because of him, it was to accomplish one very simple task.' Lord Death's tone had suddenly turned icy.

'What was it?'

'It was a message, plain and clear.' he hissed. 'They wanted me to feel the pain of losing someone I care about so I would stop ordering their own deaths.' At his words, Lisha felt sick.

Kid's murder, the snuffing out of his life, was nothing more than a flashy way to tell Lord Death to stop creating death scythes. Rage boiled up inside her.

'That's...' She was at a loss for words, knowing no words that could possibly describe her fury. 'Lord Death, I...'

'Don't say anything. Kid was a piece of my very soul, and now...' He shook his head

'Are...' She didn't want to bring this up, but she had to. 'Are arrangements needed?'

'Arrangements for what?'

'Sir, I'm assuming the body needs to be taken care of.' Lord Death froze at her words, and turned to her in shock.

'Death scythe...' As he looked at her, he saw tears in her eyes, and that her hand was trembling.

'After all, it's far from respectful to leave his body unburied.' He looked at her for a long moment before nodding.

'I know, but...' Lord Death was very, very still. 'If I give my son a proper burial, it will endanger anyone who approaches the body no matter who they are.' Lisha stared in shock.

'Sir, what do you mean?'

'Kid's death was a message to me. The witches who attacked us were vengeful, desiring to make me feel the same pain they feel when one of them are killed by the students.' He paused. 'It is entirely possible that they've...' At this point he stopped, trembling.

'Sir, what do you think they've done?'

'They may have turned his body into a trap.' Lisha stared in shock. 'We don't know their full capabilities, their new ability to hide their souls is proof of this. I don't know what they might have done...but it's very possible that they could have infected his body with a harmful spell that radiates dangerous magic into those who come near — it's a very old and difficult spell, but their team of witches could accomplish it with their numbers. They would probably assume that I would not fetch Kid's body myself but send someone else instead — someone close I can trust, like a Death Scythe, and while that level of magic cannot harm beings as powerful as shinigami, it can be quite dangerous to humans. Using a decay radiation spell on Kid's corpse would make sense, as if one of the Death Scythes like you went to collect the body, the radiating magic would kill them — and the deaths of a Death Scythe or two would only expand the vengeance of the witches' message. This kind of magic would also heavily damage the...ah, vessel. Kid's body would decay very quickly.'

'Lord Death, I understand the danger in retrieving the body, however I am completely accepting of the risk involved! If I fell sick from it, then my death would be easy to cover up - I live alone, with no family. Even the cause could be hidden, most missions I've taken in the past have had a considerable risk to them. It would hardly be difficult to hide it!'

'No. They've already taken Kid from me, I refuse to let anyone else die for this. You're one of the most powerful weapons this Academy has seen so far, and, well...' Lord Death sighed. 'You're... _young_. You have so much ahead of you. Whilst you have chosen to serve humankind's protection by joining the DWMA and accepted that you may not come back from a mission, as long as you're in this city you are within my reach - and as long as someone is within my reach so I can help it, I shall not allow them to pointlessly die young like Kid - especially getting involved in something that is not specifically their personal matter; that would be unfair.'

Lisha was silent for a long moment and her eyes darted from the floor to Lord Death and back, clearly thinking.

 _Kid deserves this simple sign of respect, surely. Very few even know he lived, he shouldn't be forgotten in death. I meant what I said, I'd risk my life to give him this. To do anything less would be to shirk my duty. But, Lord Death does have a point. Just because the witches killed him doesn't mean they've achieved their goal, not really. They've managed to steal Kid from his father, and that pain will follow him for many years, I think. However, the damage can be limited if no one approaches the body. I wouldn't be surprised if the witches had desecrated his body, they've certainly been bold recently. The chance they planted a trap is quite high. I just don't know if the chance of a trap is high enough to justify leaving Kid's body unburied._

 _No. This is Lord Death's decision, not mine, to make. He's right, of course - I could have a lot ahead of me, as his personal death scythe. It's not like I don't understand why he's worried. This is more his business than mine. It's not up to me what happens to Kid's body._

Eventually, she sighed.

'As you wish, sir. Should there still be some form of recognition for him?' Lord Death nodded firmly.

'In the cemetery, there should still be a place for him. Only the two of us know he lived, so it may not serve much point, but he deserves this much.' He paused. 'Empty grave or not.'

Lisha nodded, and turned to exit the Death Room. 'I'll go and make the preparations.'

The sound of her footsteps faded as she disappeared from sight.

Now alone, Lord Death slumped to the ground, resting on his knees.

'I'm so sorry, Kid...I just don't want to lose anyone else, too.'

~:~

One week later, Lisha walked into the Death Room, having had just arrived for the day. It was empty, filled only with the dais, mirror, and endless field of crosses. She hurried to the end of the tori gates, looking around.

Seeing a note folded over and pinned to the last tori gate, she tore it off and read it.

 _Death scythe,_

 _I believe it is clear why I am not here today. I made made sure there are no specific items today requiring my attention. Unless it is an absolute emergency, such as the deaths of either students, staff, or reports of death scythes from around the world that are urgent, or a kishin or witch appearance that cannot be contained, under any other circumstances I am not to be contacted._

 _-Lord Death_

She sighed, and placed the note into a pocket.

 _I can't imagine what he's going through...I can't feel a thing through our souls._

~:~

The black-cloaked figure stood in front of the headstone.

Lord Death looked around, checking to make sure no one was nearby, and when it was clear that the area was deserted, he reached up and removed his mask, fingers going through the three holes and pulling it away. As he did so, his usual spiky, god form transformed into a purple light, collapsing into his palm.

The centuries-old reaper looked at the simple headstone Lisha had ordered, golden eyes mournfully reading the words.

 _Death the Kid_

 _1800-1813_

 _Taken Before His Time_

He wore a simple black suit, with an ornate skull pin in the top. Three white circles, connected Lines of Sanzu, encircled his head. He knelt at the end of the grave, eyes on the headstone.

'Kid, I am so, so sorry. I never once thought I'd lose you - you weren't a meister, you weren't out in the field, and while I thought that made sure you were safe, I know now that that only put your life in even greater jeopardy.' A bitter, deprecating smile formed on his face - not truly a smile, but rather a forced grin at what the world had done. 'You were targeted simply because you were my son, and had I let you train...you may still be alive.' He bowed his head. 'I know that your body isn't here, but a part of me hopes your spirit is, otherwise this is all useless sentiment.

'I wonder if you know that, despite the fact I didn't come home often, I did love you, as any parent does their child. These past thirteen years have been some of the best for me, and as someone who has lived many centuries, that is quite a thing to say, yet not surprising in the least. It should go without saying, but I thought this also of saying I loved you and was so, so proud, and now I wonder if you ever knew.' His voice fell. 'Everything that we are now is my fault - I was not fast enough, I did not think any would dare to attack my family, I-' Here, Lord Death's voice failed him. Even thinking of the body he'd seen look up from his book, smile and say hello, golden eyes alight with _life_ , happy to see him, was enough to bring him to tears. 'I... _wasn't_ powerful enough to, to _save_ you, and I'm...ahhh, Kid, I...' Attempting to finish what he wanted to say, Lord Death realised one fact.

There was one thing that could reduce a grim reaper, a death god, to nothing. They were not imposing, simply as normal as the next person.

Tears.

A wail burst from his throat, and Lord Death barely stopped himself from collapsing as tears poured from two-toned golden eyes, eyes that had seen things beyond human imagining, forgotten wars, eyes that would continue to see things for oh so many years to come...

~:~

Hours later, as the sun set over Death City, the sun blazing brightly through clouds, making the sky a dark red, Lisha Deihl went over to Kid's grave and gently roused the death god, noting that his spiky self seemed a bit crumpled today. How someone's very body could crumple, she had no idea, though perhaps grief was the answer. She tapped him on the shoulder.

'Sir, please. You should come back to the Academy for the night.' A faint moan was the only reason she needed to help him up, and assist him on the journey back to the Death Room.

~:~

Meanwhile, the only difference the lonely, scared and hurting ghost of Death the Kid, bound to Gallows Mansion, saw was that there was one more headstone in the cemetery.

He would not connect it with his death at the time.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: (Pokelolmc) Hello everyone! It is I, the other author of this story and I have hijacked this whole chapter! Not that it's unfair or anything. We came up with the ideas together but wrote the chapters ourselves. I just thought I'd plop an Author's Note in here. If NorthernMage wants to write her own underneath, she's fine to do so!**

 **(NM: Hey everyone, just wanted to apologise for the lack of updates of anything at all to my profile since September. Unintentional, I swear! In any case, Pokelolmc's taking the lead to end this story, and I've included the rest of my AN at the end! Enjoy!)**

 **Bartholomew: NorthernMage and Pokelolmc don't own Soul Eater.**

Chapter 4

 **Normal POV**

Darkness.

A thick, recurring black.

That was all that surrounded the translucent, apparitional form of Death the Kid.

Not that it mattered anyway, because _people couldn't see him_.

He wasn't consistently sure how long he had been there, but the candles in the house had burned out long ago. Now they sat as cold, hardened pools of formerly melted wax in dishes with wicks worn away to the metal bases. He didn't bother moving them or handling them anymore; they had been the last candles, half-used spares he obtained after he ran out of the house's basement stock – any extra candles left behind by the immature teenagers who had come to visit his domain for tests of courage and dropped them while fleeing with their tails between their legs. Now the only light he had was the sunlight that streamed through the windows in the daytime and the dim evening moonlight that gave illumination to only the outer rooms. At night, the inner parts of the mansion were engulfed in an inky black.

Not that it mattered anyway, because _he didn't need light to see._

Despite the lack of practical necessity, he had rather liked having the candlelight at night. It had been a comfort to keep at bay the engulfing blackness, and it reminded him of the days in the manor back when he was alive, the days spent with his father.

However, even the memory of those last wick-clinging flames lighting up the house in his lonely, post-death existence had now become fleeting. The darkness of the mansion's candlelight-deprived nights had eventually set in, and he didn't know why he really cared anymore.

He wasn't living anymore, after all.

He was dead.

He was a ghost, invisible to the world of the living.

Out of his collection of thoughts, one miserable thought surfaced as a bitter reminder.

He was even invisible to his father. He was invisible to the one other person who was a god of death, a grim reaper, the one other person who could normally see the ghosts of the dead.

Maybe it was because he was his son? Maybe Lord Death was just so locked up in grief that he was blind to the presence of his child's soul?

Kid sighed as he hugged his knees towards himself, sitting with his back against one of the inner hallways of Gallows Manor. He remembered a time where he had hope; but that hope, just like the candles, had burned down and failed the test of time.

He had once hoped that his father would realise he was still here and come back for him.

All the empty nights of those empty months of those empty years spent reading books, continuing his (once barely begun) combat training, cleaning, writing down in blank journals, failing to correctly communicate with the occasional visitor and doing every other single thing he did to occupy himself had screamed of the contrary.

They still did.

He had awoken to the harsh reality of it all.

He had died, was a ghost who was trapped in this house, couldn't be perceived by the living, and his father was _never coming back._

He simply had to suffer in the dark for all eternity while no one heard him.

Finding the willpower to stand back up (because his mind kept fighting against him and telling him _what was the point?_ ), Kid strolled through the wall of the hallway and into one of the house's innermost study rooms. He needed to get back to his next round of cleaning before his mind spiralled far too down the drain.

He wandered over to the desk and began to move the clutter off in order to dust, but when he held the two ink pots next to each other while going to put them down, a spark of inspiration hit him.

Perhaps he could find a new way to occupy himself?

After dusting off the desk, he placed all the objects and utensils back on, arranging the ink pots so one was on either side of the desk and taking out and putting away the other items until the once crowded clutter was sorted into perfect symmetry.

Despite his prior gloomy mood and train of thought concerning his damned existence, he couldn't help but smile at his handiwork.

 _Yes…_ he thought _…It does look rather good actually, quite aesthetically pleasing._

His mind flashed back to his days as a little boy where his father would tell him all about order, and the importance of balance. Despite the reminiscing of his old life, it didn't bring about any of the usual melancholy feeling that being reminded of his former time of living constituted.

In fact, it was rather to the contrary. He found himself swelling with pride and confidence; he was sure that if his father could see him now he would be proud of his discovery. It was a discovery on how to lift his mood and occupy his overabundant time at once.

Death the Kid was sure that he had now found a new light in his darkness.

He went around to every room and hall excitedly, carefully arranging everything symmetrically, wasting two days straight without a break in concentration.

Well, he, at least, wouldn't call it _wasting._

He spent so much time in the many following decades nurturing the symmetry of the mansion, fitting the aesthetic rearranging into his time and list of other occupying activities.

It had, to all his obliviousness, turned into an obsession, and started to drive him somewhat mad…

…The madness of order.

It would later become an incident for any brave souls visiting Gallows Manor, be it robbers, paranormal investigators, or anyone taking on a test of courage, and would earn the house its particularly dangerous reputation that added to a certain legend… a certain legend of the Ghost of the Gallows, a certain legend that Kid was barely acquainted with.

 **TIME SKIP, SUMMER OF 1922**

The orange sky, still barely lit, played hanger to the tired sun, its soft but rough snoring sounding low across the sky as adults drove and rode back from work and the last children had left the parks, having taken the chance of the weekend to let off steam from their school studies. One flat-red-haired teenage boy, with pale, freckled skin and blue eyes, panted as he ran down one of the older streets in the neighbourhood, stopping outside a long brick and metal fence to wipe sweat from his forehead.

'Come on!' he teased his friends playfully and eagerly, ' _Someone_ sure is slow!'

His friends, a pinkish-skinned boy with olive green eyes and blond hair that was tied in a short, low ponytail and a slightly tanner boy with brown eyes and short, brown hair in a bowl haircut, came to a halt, panting, behind him.

'So, this is it…' the brunette boy spoke, fiddling with his blue suspenders over a white dress shirt nervously.

'Indeed.' The ginger grinned, as they all stared down the large, several-story mansion within the backyard behind the tall, black fence, 'Death City's resident haunted house, Gallows Manor.'

'Well, it's time to complete that Fear Test dare from that gang of push-around morons at school!' the blond boy announced, 'We're not letting them call us cowards!'

'I concur!' the red-haired one agreed, hoisting his navy blue shorts higher up over his tucked-in pale yellow shirt, 'We shall go in, explore the mansion and if we bump into the infamous Ghost of the Gallows, we won't be screaming like babies! If the ghost really exists, that is! We can survive the night in here!'

'Of course we can!' his blond friend cheered. The brunette boy prepared the small lantern they were taking with them – they couldn't sneak one of their parents' flashlights out from behind their backs. The ginger boy grabbed onto the sleek, steel gate and climbed over it.

'Ready, Bartholomew?' the blond asked.

The red-haired, Bartholomew, nodded as he positioned himself atop the gate and hauled up the blond boy.

'Gosh you're heavy, Ernest!' he complained as he got down and the blond, Ernest, sat up on the gate.

'Come on, Mark – the lantern!' Ernest said, before the brunette threw him the lantern and he passed it down to Bartholomew, then grabbing Mark and helping him over the gate. Ernest got down, and all three boys stood in front of the immense, death-themed mansion, its estranged form backed by the light that had almost completely disappeared as the peach sky faded completely to the start of a dark night. Bartholomew lit the lantern, its yellow glow illuminating the trio's faces as they trudged slowly up to the door of the mansion. A small feeling of pending regret tried to surface as Ernest reached for the door, uneasiness flashing through his olive green eyes.

'Well, here we go…' he reached for the handle of the door, knowing, as the night set in full force behind them, that the moment they set foot into the twisting halls of the dark and quiet mansion was the moment they would be trapping themselves in the lair of a mysterious entity of legend that would no doubt come at them from behind and terrify them, if it existed. 'There's no turning back now…'

Not to mention, if the ghost was real and got them, their screams would go unheard. They were alone, as far as the confirmed and living people in the vicinity went, and no one would come for them.

The blond boy opened the door, and the three peeked inside as the entrance foyer to the mansion was revealed. Walls of white – that could only be discerned as white under the light of the lantern, were narrow at the hallway right inside the door, decorated with small wooden table stands standing against either wall directly opposite each other, and led further out into a wider space at the main area of the foyer. The foyer acted as in intersections for hallways that branched off in different directions and was flanked, in its main area, by a pair of black stairs with smoothly carved white railing posts that headed up to the mansion's second floor. A circular rug with ring patterns sat on the floor and aligned vases decorated more tables that stood on either side of the walls.

The three boys slowly stepped into the dark house and shivered as a cold shudder ran down their spines. Walking through the dark hallway, rocks of nervous discomfort set in their stomachs.

The whole foyer area was eerily silent and deathly still. Not a single thing in the darkness around them moved. It was all completely lifeless. The group of visitors coming in with their lantern to walk around was the only disturbance. Yet, something seemed off about the look of the place.

'Is it just me, or is there something strange about this entrance room?' Mark asked quietly, his voice tinged with fear as his mouth curved into a frown.

'It's the furniture…It is all so neatly and perfectly aligned. Someone intentionally arranged it like this.' Bartholomew whispered, 'Why would someone care about the decor of an abandoned house? Not to mention…'

Ernest finished his sentence for him as the ginger boy trailed off in fear:

'If it is an abandoned mansion that nobody goes near…

Why is there no dust?'

Indeed, it as if the entire house had been frozen in a pristine moment of aesthetic perfection; furniture aligned symmetrically, perhaps to the exact millimetre, and spotless area void of most dust. True to what naturally happens with any place, some particles were settled, but it was completely contrary to the dirty, thick layers of dust that one would expect of a haunted house subject to little over a hundred years of neglect that would only be disturbed by the numerous intruders that came before Bartholomew, Ernest and Mark. However, all the other visitors would have surely spent most of their time walking around the mansion and examining it, not dusting all of its rooms down.

'Someone…must have cleaned the house…' Mark trailed off nervously, 'But /whom/?

Is someone secretly living here?'

Before anyone could voice their opinion in regard to the brunette's question, the entrance doors slammed closed behind them, disrupting the undisturbed foyer, and causing the boys to jump in fright, with a loud, concise /bang/.

'Wh-who's there!?' Mark squeaked as the startled trio turned to face the shut door.

The silent room remained silent, giving no answer.

They were in an abandoned, supposedly haunted mansion, at night, in the dark with only a lantern in an atmosphere that seemed completely undisturbed until some extra entity possibly revealed its presence. Their minds were screaming at them to _run_ , to _get away as fast as possible and never come back to the house_ , but they had told themselves they would go through with the Test of Fear, and it was too big a blow to their pride to leave just after they got in.

'We have to keep going!' Ernest hissed, trying to resettle his resolve before it got shaky again, 'Come on!'

The other two reluctantly following the blond through the ominous room, they turned down the next hallway and began to venture through the house. Half an hour later, they reached a long hallway that lead to several, even pairs of rooms on either side. It was similar to the other hallways in the mansion – a black and white colour scheme, evenly aligned vases on tables that lined its length.

'Where do we go now?' Bartholomew questioned, 'Do you want to just pick randomly?'

'Sure! Let's check out this one on the right.' Mark suggested, pointing to the third last door on the right side of the hallway. Bursting through the door, they immediately paced into the room for any objects of interest. A wooden work desk caught their eyes, its surface lacklustre from a long-worn down, faded coat of varnish. Some small, almost ancient-looking papers were stacked on the middle of its surface, two empty ink wells sitting on either side.

'Looks like it's a study.' Ernest pointed out, 'The papers here could have been sitting here for many years or only a few days for all we know, but someone has been using this room at some point in time.

'You know what studies are _also_ good for?' Bartholomew smirked, 'Typical ghost hotspots!'

'Oh, please no…' Mark sighed.

'Well, we came for a test of fear but we haven't found anything odd except for the cleanness of the place and the slamming front door! You always see it in movies, too, people finding ghosts in the studies of whatever house they haunt! I'm going to call on this one, _if it really exists_ , so we can actually accomplish something!'

'You're only not scared anymore because we haven't had anything else happen yet.' Mark pointed out warningly, 'Now you're getting cocky and the moment you do something that could lure in any form of paranormal activity, it shall put us in a predicament and you'll start getting frightened with the rest of us!'

'Oh, please!' the ginger shot back, 'I'm actually going to decidedly get either of two outcomes out of this! Either way, it'll make the night somewhat eventful! In the case of nothing happening, we just go home because then there is clearly nothing here!'

He paced around the desk to get to its chair. Sitting himself in the wooden seat, he drummed his fingers on the desk and called out daringly.

'Hello, o' rumoured wrathful ghost of this mansion, _I'm talking to you_! People have been in here and seen many things you've done, but we came here for a test of fear and you've left us an uneventful night! I'm actually disappointed in you! Where have you gone? Are you avoiding us because you've long since left, or because you don't exist despite the stories? Or are you here and you are leaving us alone because you pity us and don't want to scare us? We're not cowards! I call upon you to show yourself to us! Tell us you're here, because you have some visitors in your domain, you silly excuse for a wind gust weak enough to only blow down paper!'

'Bartholomew! What are you doing!? Don't _aggravate_ it!' Mark cried frantically.

The only answer that seemed to meet Bartholomew's provoking rant was a deafening silence.

Ernest was the first one to break it.

'Well, it looks like nothing is happening.'

'That doesn't mean there is no ghost! I say we give it time.' Bartholomew replied.

'Oh, you won't be waiting for anything.' An unfamiliar voice cut in.

The trio jumped around, suddenly scared by the new presence's unprecedented appearance.

A rugged, adult male figure had finished climbing in the study window, holding onto a brown, coarse sack. Tanned, calloused skin was whipped by long, messy locks of grey hair flapping in the night wind that scattered the worn, yellow papers stacked on the work desk carelessly across the room. Dirty, ragged long pants and a long sleeved shirt of faded brown and navy blue, respectively, covered a slightly beefed build, and beady, sickly red irises gleamed down at the boys with a hungry bloodlust as a thin mouth opened and curled into a grin showing off a mouth of yellowed daggers.

He most definitely, the boys agreed, was not a ghostly apparition at all.

However, the fear he constituted was very likely the same.

Thumping echoed throughout the house as the boys shouted in fear and bolted out of the room as fast as their legs could take them. It was no use, however, as the dangerous burglar, they assumed, began to catch up to them. There was no way they could defend themselves. They were just regular children. They weren't weapons or meisters like the people who attended Lord Death's famous Academy at the top of the city; they couldn't defend themselves from a person like this – a /person/, if he was even human at all.

Adrenaline began to pump through their veins at the thought of dying so young, as their own fear engulfed them and encouraged them to continue the chase down another four hallways.

The grinning monster caught up from behind as they passed right next to another black and white door, and the monster unsheathed long, claw-like fingernails, grazing across the back of Mark's left leg and causing the boy in question to yowl and stumble in pain.

The two other boys screamed out their friend's name as the inhuman burglar tried to punch at them but missed, instead accidentally snapping the door behind them off its hinges. The terrified and almost crying boys fell through the open doorway, into what appeared to be a book storage room, for piles of thick tomes were stacked around the room in an even, aligned manner, a little walkway created through the middle of the perfect formation of piles. The monster leered evilly at his prey as he towered over their cowering forms – that were scrambling back to try an unsuccessful attempt to create as much distance as possible between them and their attacker.

Those rotten, sharp teeth gleamed as that horrid mouth, that Bartholomew, Mark and Ernest now noticed to be dipped in the scent of blood (from whoever he had harmed before he found them in the study, most likely), curled up into a sickening grin that only spelled out the end for them.

'I didn't think I'd find anyone here. The pathetic legend that surrounds this place doesn't seem to be true, so I thought it would be even more unmanned. I suppose I was wrong. Anyway, it doesn't matter that I was wrong; the only important thing is the more I get out of this trip – goods and souls.' A long, red tongue flicked out to lick the tanned, unsatisfied lips, 'Now come like good little boys!' the kishin egg man raised his sharp nails and tore at Ernest and Bartholomew, nicking small slits around the top middles of their foreheads as they ducked, but mostly slashing their sharpness through a stack of books the boys were almost practically leaning up against. The torn of hardcovers and fragments of ancient, yellow, delicate pages floated to the floor, like improperly shred confetti to welcome the young trio into the realm of death.

'NO!' the boys screamed.

 _It's going to end like this._ Mark thought, distressed tears now streaming down his face.

 _We're really about to die!_ Ernest thought, his body shaking violently.

 _But we're not ready to die! THERE HAS TO BE A WAY! PLEASE! SOMEONE!_ Bartholomew begged mentally, his mouth now too frozen in fear to voice his final plea.

They closed their eyes, expecting agonising pain to tear across their soft, young, human skin, but confusion began to settle in as their anticipation was not met. Immediately, green, blue and brown eyes snapped open and gazed up at the murderer above them, his deadly sharp-clawed hand being held back by some strange, invisible force.

'Wha…what's going on?' Ernest stuttered nervously as they gaped up at the kishin egg, who was growling at his unseen captor like a restrained savage animal. Suddenly, the room flashed with an eerie, white light, and the three young humans stared in adrenaline-coursing horror as a figure faded into view out of midair. The trio's would-be murderer turned his head to look behind him and his victims screamed at the figure, their legs beginning to shake.

Floating about one and a half metres off the ground, one hand strongly grasping the kishin egg's wrist, was a pale, translucent, teenage boy, clad in an old-fashioned, noble Victorian-era attire they could make out as being black with gold lining on the sleeve cuffs and a white cravat worn around the neck. His hair was a muted ebony, with three, white stripes wrapping around the left side, but the most significant thing they all noticed about the young-looking apparition was his pair of two-toned, golden eyes, that, at that moment, pierced through the murderer with a cold, ruthless, furious death glare. They could almost see a dark aura licking the edges of his outline.

He was livid.

'The…the legend…' Mark stuttered.

'It's…' Bartholomew trailed off.

The same thought was in all of the human boys' heads.

 _It's true... The legend is real..._

 _This is the Ghost of the Gallows._

 _'You! Kishin egg!'_ the ghost hissed in a dark, furious tone, increasing the strength of his grip on the aforementioned monster's wrist. The humanoid demon almost winced in pain at. The boy's voiced anger made a sudden rise from a piano to a forte as he furiously thundered.

'HOW _DARE_ YOU DISTURB THE AESTHETIC ORDER OF THIS HOUSE? YOU HAVE WRECKED THE OLD BOOKS AND THE DOOR! I AM THE SOLE RESIDENT AND KEEPER OF THIS HOUSE, AND IF YOU DEFILE IT WITH YOUR DEMONIC, HIDEOUS, ASYMMETRICAL PRESENCE, YOU ANSWER TO _ME_!' the angered ghost thrust the growling kishin egg into the floor, and the now completely shaking and horrified Ernest, Mark and Bartholomew looked on in complete and utter terror as the phantom wrapped his pale hands around the filthy burglar's throat, choking the air out of him. The kishin egg, eyes wide as his survival instinct kicked in, began to attempt to tear at the enraged apparition with his claws, only to find that every attack went completely through the boy and left him unfazed in his task of eliminating the creature in humanoid form in front of him.

The three boys looked on after backing into a corner, huddling together like they were each other's lifelines as their shaking, shocked legs refused to let them stand up, watching as the burglar's life gradually left him as his futile flailing became slower and slower, until the inhuman man's movements eventually came to a complete stillness and his last, fleeting breath came out in the form of a quiet gargle. The evil being's body suddenly dissolved into, thin, black ribbons, and a crimson soul was the only thing that remained of the man who almost killed them.

The rage inside the ghost boy was sated, as he calmed down to a cool, collected demeanour almost immediately. He picked up the sack the burglar had been carrying, and fished out a round, black, ornate plate from the various goods contained inside. He grimaced; he must have recognised it from the house and maybe realised that the burglar had been trying to steal it, the boys assumed. The spirit turned to the Mark, Bartholomew and Ernest and he frowned, before raising an eyebrow in confusion. It seemed he was so focused on the kishin egg that he had not, until now, noticed the trio whose lives he just ended up saving.

As soon as the translucent entity glanced at them, the three screamed in panic, clambered to their feet, grabbed their lantern and dashed out of the room, trying to exit the house the way they remembered coming.

As soon as they were out of the mansion, the boys fell to their knees until they stopped shaking, panting in exhaustion, and they felt pain take the place of the fading adrenaline as they looked back to the cuts given to them. Ernest's and Bartholomew's foreheads were marred with one and a half to two-centimetre cuts, and Mark and a small gash on the back of his leg where he had been attacked while running. The warm blood seeping down from their small wounds stained small lines down their clothes, and in Bartholomew and Ernest's cases, getting caught in their eyebrows and running down their cheeks, mingling with the salty tears of fright that had started flowing from the two of them after the ghost appeared. The two picked out old handkerchiefs from their pockets, and wiped the blood off before it could reach their eyes; they wrapped the cloth around their heads like headbands or a makeshift bandage. Mark took out his own and wrapped it around the wound on his leg; they would have to bear with the pain as they made their way home.

'It's lucky our mums always make us carry these stupid handkerchiefs around, huh?' he chuckled lightly.

'I know.' Bartholomew agreed, heightening the pitch of his voice and putting on a serious tone in a mocking impression of their parents in question, _'"Now, now! You are growing up and you need to start behaving like proper gentlemen! Gentlemen always carry their good handkerchiefs!"'_

The three began to chuckle lightly at their situation, before slowly standing up to head over the mansion fence.

'But hey, we really saw a ghost…A real ghost…That _was_ real, wasn't it?' he questioned, 'I mean, I couldn't believe my eyes!'

'The ghost... He was terrifying, but he saved us…' Mark began, 'He was going on about aesthetics and was furious for that kishin egg man breaking the door down, I think, from what he said. Isn't that weird?'

'Maybe he has a comfort thing?' Ernest suggested, 'He's obviously who has been cleaning up the dust, and arranged everything so… symmetrically…Maybe he's arranged everything like that for a long time and when someone comes in and messes it up he loses it because there is a change in the environment around him? So he's constantly fretting over the aesthetic neatness of the mansion and maintaining it that way because he's become so accustomed to an environment like that and he becomes uncomfortable when it is changed from that familiarity?'

'I suppose…' Bartholomew trailed off, sighing 'Really, why does every explanation you come up with have to involve really big and fancy theories and words? Anyway, it's sort of creepy out here. We need to get back.'

The boys agreed, and faced Gallows Manor, the house they had just escaped, shivers going up their spines as the front door creaked open just as they turned. The doorway was completely empty, yet something had to have pushed the door. Was it the ghost? It had to be.

'A-a-are you still there?' Bartholomew stuttered, scared by the sudden movement like his companions, in address to the spirit who haunted the mansion.

Standing in the doorway, as he was unable to go outside the mansion, Kid nodded quietly, not saying a word. He analysed the look on the red-haired boy's face, but it stayed the same, as if completely oblivious to the physical response. Could they not see him anymore? From the way the trio of young intruders reacted, they could see him when he strangled the kishin egg that had intruded on his domain. Had it only been for those small minutes? Just a mere fluke?

The red-haired boy shrugged, and his blond and brunette friends followed him.

In his head, he began to muse over the disruption of the perfection of his domain. _They are lucky they did not defile the symmetry of Gallows Mansion, with their hustling about! They best not come back here or they might a second time around and I shall have to give them a lesson too! I shall not show bias on the young!_

The ginger and brunette boy began clambering over the fence, but the green-eyed blond turned to the doorway, smiling slightly.

'Thank you.'

Kid almost jumped in surprise, and was snapped out of his internal rant. He put his full attention on the boy who delayed climbing over the fence to say those two, last words.

'Thank you…for saving us…' the green-eyed boy continued, 'If you had not gotten to that burglar when you did, we would have perished. So…we are grateful to you.'

The deceased reaper's mind birthed a myriad of confused thoughts at the boy's gratitude.

The boy…was grateful? Even though they were scared by him? Kid was only punishing the burglar for tainting the symmetrical perfection of Gallows Mansion, as he did to everyone else who knocked something over, moved it and didn't put it back the way it had been, or tried to take something from the house. He hadn't even noticed the boys were there. _Again,_ they were _scared of him._

That's when he completely realised.

All of that time, his OCD had kept him desperate to maintain the aesthetic alignment of everything in Gallows Manor. He had drowned in it because of his boredom, loneliness and suffering, and had taken that anger out on others who disrupted that balance – others who were visitors to his house, and who he should have tried to communicate with. The three boys who became his latest guests were terrified by his image. It was exactly the same as the way his OCD had caused him to terrorise other visitors. Why was he acting like the typical, villainous, vengeful spirits he had read of in storybooks as a little child? Shouldn't he be trying to ask his visitors for help to set him free? Or at least to keep them in his company for longer than the few minutes to an hour most stayed in the house for before fleeing in terror? Yet he had been busy conducting business in the basement to notice this latest, young trio arrive. He had not terrorised them. His OCD had led to his defeat of the kishin egg, and he had saved their lives.

And this boy was grateful for it.

To _him_! The _ghost_ of Gallows Manor who surely had a frightening reputation amongst at least a few people thanks to what he had done over the past decades!

He couldn't let that sort of angry haunting continue anymore. He had to go back to welcoming guests with the hope that they would set him free. He had to.

It was a shame he was now unable to be perceived by the boys, for if he wasn't…

Then the child who thanked him would see him smiling – one of the first and truest smiles since he was confined to that unlit, lonely hell.

'Come on, Ernest! Hurry up! We need to get our cuts cleaned up!' the red-head called to his friend.

'Alright! Wait for me!' the blond boy, Ernest, as Kid now clearly knew he was named, called as he hauled himself over the fence and he and his friends ran away into the dark night together back to one of their homes, their lantern guiding them.

Kid would never see them again; but he would remember them, and they would remember him.

 **TIME SKIP, SUMMER OF 1986**

The noisy hustle and bustle of a busier Death City filled the midday sky as a retired, worn, old man smiled reminiscently at the date on the water lily photography calendar pinned to the wall in his apartment living room. He always remembered it every year – it was the day he nearly died. He would never forget the day his life was spared, especially as he was now nearing the end of long life that was granted to him from that day. He would always remember that if it hadn't been for a dead soul, who he was undoubtedly soon to join, if that spirit had finally passed on, he wouldn't have grown up to start such wonderful family.

The chiming of his doorbell sounded and the weakened senior brushed some long since-greyed hair out of his eyes as he reached for his cane. Deciding it was a lost cause as it kept slipping from his fingers and the doorbell rung again, he found the strength to hobble over to the door and pull the knob. The door opened, and the familiar face of his son emerged inside, grasping hands with his small, child of his own.

The middle-aged man turned to the old fellow and embraced him in a gentle hug.

'Hello, dad.'

'Hello, again.' The old main smiled at his son, giving him a pat on the back as they separated, 'What is it today? An extra work shift?'

His son chuckled, adjusting a formal black hat and replying.

'Yes. Work has been piling up, and I think I'll be stuck doing overtime. The wife's out today, so I have to come to you again. Sorry, dad, about pushing this onto you again.'

'No, it's fine.' The grey-haired grandfather smiled, looking down to the little red-haired child clinging to the bottom of his father's dress shirt, 'So, the little one is staying with me again! We're going to have lots of fun!'

The small boy ran from his father and planted a small hug around his grandfather's waist.

'Grandpa!'

'I'll go get you some shortbread out of the cupboard, alright?' the senior said to his grandson.

The boy nodded eagerly and looked towards his father as he waved goodbye and headed out the door.

'I'll be back when work is done! Hopefully it won't go on too late!'

'Alright!' the eldest of the three waved as the door shut, then picked up the cane he had fuddled with before and made his way into the kitchen.

'Now, for some shortbread!' he reminded himself as he fetched the jar of shortbread from his kitchen pantry and returned with two plates of three biscuits each. He settled the plates on the table and his grandson, who sat down at the table, began to eat.

'So, you're four now. You'll be a big boy soon!' the older of the two started the conversation.

The boy just nodded with a small hum of agreement, shoving a full piece of shortbread into his mouth.

'Would you like to hear a story? This day is so special to me, and the story tells why.' The man's wizened olive green eyes shining at the idea.

The grandson nodded eagerly. If there was one thing his grandpa did well, it was tell brilliant stories. He looked up to his father's father and asked curiously.

'What is the story about, grandpa?'

His grandpa smiled.

'It's a ghost story.'

'AH!' the boy squealed in overreaction and hid his face in his hands. The old man chuckled.

'Not exactly the really scary sort, don't worry.'

He began to tell his story, of the day all those years ago that he went on an escapade to Gallows Mansion with his friends, about the 'bad guy' who was about to deal the last attack, when the apparition of a young boy appeared before their eyes and drove the monster man away. His little grandson looked up at him in intrigue at every word, captivated by his vivid descriptions of the rooms in the large house and of the ghost who saved him.

'So that's why today is special?' the little boy asked him, crimson hair falling into his eyes as he cocked his head curiously.

'Indeed.' The old man smiled, 'Because it's the same as the day that story happened, and if it wasn't for that ghost, I would not be living today. I would not have met your grandmother, we would not have had your father, and your father and mother would not have had you. There are some people who do things, if they mean to or not, and it becomes important, whether to you or two others. When I'm gone, I hope to join that ghost if he's there and has gone to peace himself, but always remember– '

 _A year passed after then. The rain pattered down on the umbrellas of the black-clad gatherers._

'Be thankful for what you have, and to the people you meet, even if they're only souls –"

 _A five-year-old boy clung to his father's jeans, his sky blue eyes wet with tears._

'Because there are people out there who may save your life with their actions, and thank them, no matter who they are…Like that lost soul and I.'

 _He's gone now._

'And as you grow up, remember that you're here and that your father before you is here –'

 _The little boy was still so young, too young to later remember –_

'Is a legend you should always remember...'

 _–what his grandpa told him._

'I should always remember, grandpa?'

 _The little boy peered at the headstone, the raindrops sliding down its surface._

'Indeed. You should always remember it…'

 ** _ERNEST ALBARN 1908-1987_**

'The Legend of the Ghost of the Gallows.'

 _But he forgot it all, he was too young. He forgot the description of the Ghost of the Gallows. The little boy was just too little. What his grandfather told him went to his grandfather's grave._

'Do you understand that, Spirit?'

 _But the Ghost of the Gallows wouldn't forget._

 **A/N: (Pokelolmc) The ending came to me in the spur of the moment so I had to make a tie in to Ghost of the Gallows somehow and I thought it sounded cool (ended up tying into the modern-era timeline of Ghost of the Gallows). Sorry if tying into Maka specifically wasn't called for, though. Damn it, though, I just had to add a second death on top of Kid's…Probably because I had the song 'Continued Story' from the very ending scene of Code Geass in my head while writing the last bit and DEAR GOD ALL ABOARD THE FEELS TRAIN! KEEP YOUR ARMS AND LEGS IN THE CARRIAGE AT ALL TIMES AND HOLD ON TIGHT! CHOO CHOO! I just realised by accident that I gave the Ernest boy the same hair and eyes as Maka when I came up with the three boys' hair and eye colours so I thought 'why not make him her great-grandfather? It could tie in well at the end.' Not sure how well I did it, though. So, NorthernMage, any last words for this story?**

 **NM: Honestly, I'd just like to thank everyone for sticking with this story! It's been a long work in progress, and I have to say, while I haven't had much time in the Soul Eater fandom recently, this story has been amazing to collab on! I've loved this entire universe, in fact! Ghost!Kid has been fantastic to write!**

 **Also, I highly encourage going and checking out Pokelolmc's stories if you haven't already - they're amazing and with her having written a good half of this series, it would be wrong if she got ignored by any means!**

 **I hope to see all of you guys again in another fanfic!**


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